Fallout Shelter
by Unicat
Summary: After Mr. Burns inadvertantly discovers Smithers' feelings for him, they both take shelter as they deal with the fallout. Hence the title. FINISHED!Please read & review! :
1. Chapter 1

**Friday**

He wondered if he had really always known it would turn out this way.

Ironically, he'd planned on telling him himself. And maybe, possibly he actually would've gone through with it this time-the day after, the night IT happened. But IT happened, and now there was no need to tell him because he already knew. He knew enough, anyway. And for Smithers, it was all over.

He hadn't brought it on himself, as it wasn't his intention for it to happen like this. Just like he hadn't meant to fall in love with Burns to begin with, exactly the wrong person. You couldn't help who you fell in love with, though. At least, that's what Smithers told himself. Sometimes he wondered if there had somehow been a way to guard his heart. Especially since he had long accepted that this was the forever type of love, the type you never got over.

Anyway, since it was an accident and he'd never gotten to speak the words, he didn't even have the relief of getting anything off his shoulders. Or rather, it had dropped from his shoulders onto his heart, crushing it. He knew that, most likely, when he came back from vacation on Tuesday, he'd be coming back to be fired. Then he didn't know what he'd do. He wouldn't wasn't to live…

The immense weight on his heart pinned him to his hotel room bed and he felt sick to his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut and try as he might to keep the visions from coming, he saw the scene once again as it was

**Thursday Night:**

Mr. Burns had stayed late at the plant and consequently so had Smithers, his ride home. It was one of those rare times Smithers was in his own office, not in his favorite place, beside Burns. He was on E-bay, in a desperate bidding war for the Limited Edition Dessert Storm Malibu Stacey when who should come strolling in but his one-time fling, John.

"Well, hello Sunshine, how's it hanging?" He paused, then added slyly, "Not that I don't know." He approached Waylon's desk and started idly stringing together some stray paperclips.

Waylon paled. "John," he seethed, "How'd you get in here?" He didn't wait for a reply; it really wasn't surprising considering the inept security personnel. "Never mind." He leaned a little forward and sniffed at John's jacket. "Are you drunk?" he asked in disgust.

"Says the man who's seven and a half Cosmos prompted our hookup. Seriously, I never see you around anymore. Stuart, that gossip, said he saw you at One Night Stan's and that you might have went home with some guy named Grady…"

_Oh, no no no, not here!_ Smithers silently begged. He pulled himself upright in his chair. "Do you have a point? Get out!" he snapped. He rose from his seat to escort John out.

"Humph! Now that's a pretty way to talk to me, Waylon…"

"I'll frickin' recite prose poetry to you if it'll get you to leave!" he hissed, darting an anxious glance at the closed door leading into Mr. Burns' office.

"…as for why I'm here, Grady happens to be a former…_friend_, "he sneered, "as well. Very recently former. I'd like to patch things up there, so be a doll and keep away from him, will you?"

Waylon took a swig of coffee from the mug on his desk and immediately wished that he hadn't. It was ice cold. "Aren't you being a tad possessive?"

John shrugged his shoulders. "When we were together,_ you_ were always possessive. I could never for the life of me figure out why. You obviously weren't too invested in the relationship. You won't let anyone be possessive of _you_."

All Smithers cared about was ending this conversation quickly. Never could the repercussions of having a crazy (albeit from alcohol) ex show up at work be so great. He shuddered.

"Well, you'll be happy to know I have no interest in Grady…"

"Just as I was saying!" John cried jubilantly, slapping his palm down on the desktop, "You're _never_ interested. Your whole life revolves around…"

He made a grab for the picture next to Burns on Waylon's computer. Waylon tried to stop him, but he was too slow.

John cradled the photo mockingly to his chest. "Oh, he's quite a looker, Waylon, and nicer I'll bet, than Santa Clauss."

Waylon reached out for the picture, and entreated, his voice low and plaintive, "John, please…"

He just managed to clumsily retrieve it, but his hands were shaking so badly that he dropped it. It hit the carpeted floor and the back came off. Smithers bent to pick it up and as he turned around and stood…

He saw Mr. Burns.

_Oh…my…God…_

Burns did not make eye contact with Smithers. Instead, he turned contemptuously to John. "He is evidently an acquaintance of yours, Smithers, but I will not have this miserable cur in my power plant after hours," he gave John the once-over, "or ever." He held up a hand and waggled bony fingers at him. "Away with you! Return to the gutter to beg passersby to supply you with the means to buy more discount l_iquore_."

Silently, Smithers laid a hand on John's shoulder and guided him out without incident, his heart pounding so dreadfully in his ears it sounded like the roar of the ocean.

Afterward, he found his boss already in his limo, not even waiting for smithers to open the door for him. Smithers slid behind the steering wheel, wracking his brain for some sort of explanation.

"We were just…" his voice came out as a whisper and he didn't go on.

Mr. Burns rolled the little window between the driver's compartment and the back of the limousine. And smithers couldn't help thinking in his quiet agony it was a metaphor for how he was now separated from him forever.

Upon arriving at the mansion, Smithers followed Burns upstairs, neither one speaking. Outside the bedroom, Burns spun neatly on his heel to face his assistant and stated concisely,

"I'm perfectly capable of performing my bedtime rituals myself. You may go home now."

Waylon inclined his head. "Yes, sir." There was so much more he wanted to say, despite his discomfort, but it wouldn't be tonight. It had been a shock to his system and before he could formulate the words, Mr. Burns slammed the bedroom door in his face.

Waylon morosely made his way down stairs and somehow drove himself safely home, where he got pretty plastered.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own The Simpsons

Smithers was awakened at four in the morning by the insistent ringing of the doorbell. Horribly hung over, he crawled he crawled off the couch where he had passed out, nearly tripping over his Yorkshire terrier, Hercules.

Montgomery Burns stood in the hall outside his door. He wrinkled his nose in revulsion at how sorry a sight Smithers was, but he said simply,

"Er, well my decision will be a welcome one at that. I don't suppose you'd relish going to work today, any more than I'd relish having you there in this shameful condition. You have this weekend a Monday off, and I'm here to suggest you take the whole of today off also." He looked at him sharply. "Not taking my suggestion is _not an option. _Catch an early flight."

Smithers ran a hand self-consciously through his hair. _Yesterday was my last day and I didn't even know it._ He gulped and it was unpardonably audible.

"Sir," he queried, "How did you get here this morning?"

"Oh, pish posh, nothing to it! It's too early for many of the all and sundry to be about. And my driving has greatly improved- I only hit two mailboxes and the crackle berry peddler." He smirked proudly for a bare second, then a look of caution came back into his eyes. He cleared his throat.

"Toodle-loo!" he called and headed down the hall.

The flashback ended and Waylon was still lying on the bed, the stone where his heart used to be yet rendering him immobile, the crippling pain in his gut present and accounted for. He stared at the wall. Vacation, indeed.

He wished he could have just received his death sentence at the trial.

**Saturday**

The last few times Waylon Smithers had had a vacation or a day off, Charles Montgomery Burns reverted to a backup plan. This time was no exception. He used the auto dresser and ate a cold breakfast of bran cereal. The difference was on those previous occasions, he rarely wondered what his assistant was doing at the same time. Upon his return, Monty daned to ask only a sparse selection of questions, then congratulated himself on faking interest in an employee's tiresome antics.

(The man never brought any pictures back, anyway.)

This time, however…

He was consumed by thoughts of the man. Not exactly what he was doing; if he had really found out what he'd thought he'd found out then he didn't want to know.

Monty had been about to walk into Smither's office on Thursday night when he heard two voices coming from inside- one slurred and fairly loud, the other (very familiar) hushed and desperate. Curious, he paused outside the door and opened just a fraction to have his ears greeted with,

"…you won't let anyone be possessive of you."

The rest of what he heard…well he couldn't rightly say that he couldn't believe it. He could, actually. And therein lied the problem.

Oh, sure, Burns had tried to reason with himself. After all, much of what had passed between his assistant and that drunken clod could be explained away. Perhaps that man- John, had Smithers called him?- had known some _woman _Smithers had been involved with and was criticizing his handling of the situation. Perhaps 'Grady" was a female name- even though it did sound masculine. And as for the photo, well, _of course_ Mr. Burns was Smithers' top priority. Smithers' only function was to serve.

Yes, maybe all these things were true. Or, maybe, Monty had just had all his suspicions confirmed.

He had had suspicions about Waylon Smithers for a long time. Just _what _he was suspicious of, he wasn't quite certain (until now). Smithers had just always been vaguely unsettling, at various times and to various degrees.

But Burns' dependence on him always demanded that he shrug it off. Why, in this new modern world they lived in, it seemed everything was always evolving, always improving, getting more efficient, faster, better.

And so Smithers' devotion could be looked upon as merely a trait of the sort of Super Assistant 3000 model he seemed to be.

Did Burns have his answer now? Was Smithers, the person he spent more time with than anyone else in the world, truly a…well, in Monty's day they called them sodomites. But Lord knows _he _

wasn't the morality police. More to the point, was Smithers one of…them and in love with _him?_

It struck Mr. Burns quite forcefully that this was his greatest fear.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own the Simpsons.

Sitting in his study later that day, Monty leaned back in his enormous wingback chair and tented his fingers, not in pleasure, but in growing irritation. He swiveled around to face the window and the sun glared harshly into his eyes, prompting him to jump up more quickly than he believed he was capable of doing.

"Bah!" he cried, and with a stupendous amount of effort managed to pull the purple velvet curtains shut. He then resumed his seat and surveyed the luxuriously upholstered, cavernous room, swathed in darkness and wondered in a rare, brief moment of clarity, exactly what he was doing here.

He massaged his temples gently and glanced at the large stack of paperwork on his desk. Damn EPA reports, most of it, he wagered, with the odd lawsuit or meaningless correspondence thrown in for variety. Blast it, this wasn't his job! He didn't know how to handle such menial tasks! If it were up to him, he would simply tell them all to go to the devil. Why should he waste his time on these irksome, letter-writing boobs? Whatever trouble he got himself into, his high-priced lawyers would be able to get him out of, anyway.

He got up and left the room, reflecting that while he periodically needed the rush (like an electric current) of reveling in the humiliation of a vanquished foe, sometimes for convenience sake, it was best to avoid a problem. And no one was better at tap-dancing around the truth with jug headed political officials or double-talking tiresome acquaintance than Waylon Smithers.

No! He would not let that man intrude upon his thoughts .

Mr. Burns sighed heavily as he made his way to the front door of his house and let himself out.

Monty wandered into Phineas Q. Butterfat's 5600 Flavors Ice cream Parlor.

A fat man in blue pants was arguing with the acne ridden teen behind the counter.

"What do you mean I can't get an ice cream cone with a scoop of every flavor on it?!"

In a shrill, squeaky voice the teen replied, "Well, sir, that particular ice-cream cone would reach heights of 467 feet. You can have 5600 separate cones, each with one of our delicious flavors."

"I won't be able to eat _that_ while I drive!" the fat man whined.

Monty rolled his eyes and made his way up to the counter.

The bald tub of guts turned. "Oh, hiya Mr. B," he said. "How's it going? It's me, Homer Simpson? I work in your power plant?"

Monty searched his brain, not very thoroughly. For the life of him, he couldn't recall the man. "Oh yes," he replied absently, "Enjoying our Saturday, are we?"

But Homer Simpson was once again talking to the soda jerk.

"We have two flavors of the week," the latter was saying, "Pistachio and Butter Brickle."

Monty's entire body tensed. Butterbrickle was his favorite, and today being the first day he was wearing his new, strong dentures, luck was truly on his side…and pistachio, well, pistachio was Smithers' favorite. It struck him as a very strange coincidence. He stared unblinking into space for several seconds.

Homer Simpson interrupted his thoughts by telling the squeaky-voiced teen, "Ew! Those flavors suck! Together, they're even worse!"

Monty narrowed his eyes at this intolerable oaf. As he walked out of the shop without buying anything, he heard Homer Simpson say over his shoulder,

"I'll take one of each."

Burns realized that he was fonder of Smithers than he had a right to be. Really, it was quite unheard of for him to harbor any sort of goodwill toward an employee. He'd valued the irreproachable hard work of Smithers' father (a trait his son now so mirrored), had thought he was a good man. But it had genuinely surprised Monty when it dawned upon him that he actually _liked_ Waylon Smithers, Jr. That he could_ like_his inferior. That he appreciated more than just his services, but that he appreciated him as a human being, too.

Of course, these unexpected feelings of warmth rarely revealed themselves through any action of Burns.It pained him, it did, to consider the course of action that must be taken. At first, it appeared possible to pretend that the whole thing never happened. But the morning that Burns had shown up at Smithers' apartment- the second he saw his assistant's face, Burns had been overcome by a sense of discomfort such as he had never felt. What if Smithers came back and that feeling never went away? And say it did. What was to stop Smithers from bringing the whole unfortunate situation up? A shrewd and intelligent man in most regards, Monty knew him to be unnecessarily sentimental. He was just enough of a fool to want to talk about it, now there was an opening. Hell, Monty was pretty sure (looking back; he had spent much of last night lying awake and looking back) that there had been times in the past when Smithers had been about to reveal the very thing that had gotten them into this mess.

He couldn't predict how it would go, what the aftermath would be, once he had fired him. The prospect didn't seem like a happy one. Smithers might sue him for wrongful termination, for discrimination. Burns' legal team might hit back with a sexual harassment charge.

But it couldn't be helped. Smithers' feelings were dangerous…

especially when they were requited.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own the Simpsons.

Please Read and Review!

Waylon stood under a cold shower in his hotel room until his skin turned pruny and he threatened to pass out from an empty stomach. He finally shut off the water and wrapped a towel around himself. He imagined the newspaper telling of his death, reporting that Waylon Smithers of Springfield had struck his head on the bathroom floor after collapsing, the result of having consumed nothing but some kahlua within the past 24 hours.

Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was 1PM. He'd certainly slept late.

Originally, he'd planned a jaunt to New York to visit his mother's family and take in a Broadway show. In fact, as far as Mr. Burns knew, that's where he was. But after the events of Thursday night, Waylon has canceled those plans and hopped a plane to Hawaii. He just couldn't face his relatives like this.

He was at a resort. Not the Men's Resort he'd been to a few times. Going there and getting endlessly hit on did not sound appealing. If he was truly honest with himself, he had to admit that John was right. He had never been genuinely interested in anyone else but Mr. Burns. He had needs, of course, and tended to use sex as a sedative, to work out his frustrations. But on this trip, he wouldn't be letting anybody into his bed.

No, he was just at a nice, upscale resort.

Thus, he was entitled to a complimentary, continental breakfast, which he forfeited in lieu of a can of nuts from the mini fridge. It was about the hardest, most important act of self-preservation he'd commit these few days. He didn't know where he found the strength to accept the fact that he had to eat something and then on top of that to actually follow through. But that didn't mean that he would sit down and enjoy a meal.

He elected to venture out into the sunshine, which nearly blinded him the second he stepped out the door after having been so long in the dark. His ears were immediately assaulted by the sounds of happy people- infuriating, insipid happy people, laughing as they splashed in the pool, a body of water too-perfect shade of blue, or in a private cabana. Smiling and chatting cheerfully as they strolled along the gardens and verandas, often holding hands, because couples were the most common here. And they were nauseating to watch, with their glowing faces, long eye contact, stealing kisses here and there. (Plus one pair, making out rather heatedly in the hot tub, who would probably make you want to shout, "Get a room!" even if weren't feeling so intensely bitter).

He had made his way around to the front of the hotel when he found a pen lying on the sidewalk. For some reason, he stooped to pick it up. It was monogrammed, and when he read the initials, he nearly had a heart attack.

C.M.B.

Smithers stood there stupidly, rolling the pen over in his hand when a woman came out of the main lobby and noticed his disoriented state.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Looking up, dazed, he explained, "I found this pen."

"Mmhm." The woman took the pen from him and examined it. "Why, this is one of mine. C. M.B. Charla Mae Bradford. Thank you for finding it." She slipped it into her purse.

"Yours?" Smithers repeated, confused. He shook his head to clear it. Of course, his love didn't have a monopoly on those initials, but still the notion unsteadied him.

"Yes." The corners of her mouth turned upward in a bemused smirk. She gave a brief, tinkling little laugh.

"Why, you really don't recognize me, do you, Waylon?"

Smithers studied her critically. That laugh, the slight Southern drawl to her voice…what was her name again? Well, it had started with a 'C', that was for certain. Christina…Chelsea….

"Charla!" He suddenly said out loud, coloring a bit.

"Maggie's sister, that's right," she confirmed and then, to his astonishment, proceeded to hug him. "How _are_ you?"

Smithers barely tolerated this demonstration of cordial familiarity (although he felt too drained to resist) and slunk out of her grasp as soon as it loosened. His eyes rooted to the ground, he muttered, "I'd hardly think you'd be happy to see me."

Charla shrugged. "I may be the plain sister, but I'm also the kind one."

Waylon didn't know how to respond to this. Looking back up at her again, he wanted to contradict the comment about her appearance but found he couldn't in honesty do it. And he lacked both the energy and the motivation to tell a cheerful falsehood just to bolster her self esteem.

Then for a second he felt compelled to…do what? Defend his ex wife? Charla had stated that she was the kind one, implying that Maggie wasn't so sweet. Which wasn't precisely true. She could be a spitfire, but they hadn't parted on the best of terms, to say the least logically Maggie'd ceased being kind to _him._

Waylon frowned and asked, "Bradford? That wasn't your name before. It wasn't Maggie's maiden name."

Charla smiled tightly. "I got married." She flipped her hair. "And divorced. That's why I'm here. It was just finalized two days ago and, well, this isn't so much of a celebratory trip as some time to get away and…think about things."

"Are you sorry it ended?" Smithers inquired rather abruptly, startling himself. He was immediately appalled at his own audacity. He really wasn't the prying type, normally. He definitely didn't want people prying into_ his_ life.

Luckily, Charla didn't act offended. She appeared to consider for a moment, then answered calmly, "I'm sorry it went wrong. I'm not sorry it ended. I'd…we'd both been…waiting for it to end for awhile. Our relationship stopped being a positive thing in our lives and became more of a burden."

They had started walking as they talked and Smithers hadn't even been aware of it. Before he knew it, they were on the other side of the resort, behind the hotel and beside the pool again. Charla dropped into one of the lounge chairs and motioned for him to do the same. He did, and promptly indicated to one of the servers to bring him a cocktail.

Charla watched him drink it greedily as she stretched her legs out contentedly in front of her.

She said suddenly, "I don't know why it should surprise you that I'm friendly to you. I mean, yes, you broke my baby sister's heart, but it wasn't exactly your fault. You probably should have gotten it all sorted out before you married Maggie, but you can't help it if you like guts."

Smithers dropped his empty glass and stared at the shattered fragments on the concrete as he started to laugh. A silent laugh, his shoulders shaking. As an attendant made her way over to sweep up the broken glass, he turned back to his companion with absolutely zero resentment. He didn't care about her abruptly revealing his sexual preference. He was far away from home, after all, and didn't know anyone here, wasn't likely to see them again. But even if he _was_ back in Springfield, he had a good feeling it still wouldn't have mattered. He knew it was probably the worst-kept secret in town, and since the one person who wasn't supposed to know now knew…judgment from anyone else was insignificant. If he received condemnation from the one whose approval he always sought, who he loved with every fiber of his being, he didn't have a life there, anyway.

"It was a very complicated situation, Charla. I'd appreciate it if we could not talk about it."

So that was the reason Maggie had given for their split. It wasn't the whole reason. Smithers knew very well whom she blamed for the disintegration of their marriage. That time in his life was like a blur now, but the issue wasn't him wanting to be with other men. It was his obsession with one specific man, and besides never liking him to begin with, Maggie blamed Mr. Burns for being able to trigger this power over her husband that she had never been able to.

Charla merely nodded at his request and grabbed a fruit kabob off a rotating tray. "So how have you been? Are you here on vacation?"

Waylon scoffed. "Vacation? Well, yes, technically."

She arched an eyebrow. "No offense, but you don't look like you're having a lot of fun."

"I'm not."

"You look downright awful!"

"Thank you!" he said tersely, eyes darting around for any server carrying alcohol.

"Why are you trying to get drunk?"

"I'm trying to _stay _drunk," he corrected her.

She laid a hand gently on his arm. "Do you need some help?"

"Probably. But not from you. I only drink when going through a crisis."

Her green eyes widened. They were wide by nature, but they grew even rounder. Not like Maggie. Hers were the same color, but she had had cat eyes.

"A crisis? Oh, good heavens, what kind of a crisis?"

"I'm waiting to find that out. Biding my time. Stuck in limbo."


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own the Simpsons.

Author's Note: Just in case anyone was confused, I used the name Maggie for Smithers' ex-wife because that's what Harleenquinn called her in her wonderful stories. So no, my fanfic doesn't take place in the future, or in some weird parallel universe where Smithers was married to Maggie Simpson.

**Sunday**

Monty Burns woke up wondering how he was going to face another day. He didn't have anything to look forward to that was going to keep him distracted. It was only a Sunday morning. He was for sure not going to sit in some phony baloney church. He'd put in an appearance every once in a blue moon, say on Christmas, not that he found it did his soul any good. And not that he cared. Even if that Heaven that idiot reverend preached about _did_ exist, if all those nitwits who attended regularly were going to be granted admission he wanted nowhere near it.

He nestled deeper into his soft pillows. Only the weak rejoiced in the weekend, he thought to himself. A businessman like himself saw it for what it truly was- two days to be senselessly unproductive .To be cheated. And those buffoons in his employ were cheating themselves, too. For if they were obliged to labor seven days a week, doubtlessly they would acquire a taste for it. They'd learn a valuable lesson about the importance of hard work in a Capitalist society.

Any self-respecting, nose-to-the-grindstone businessman was unable derive any semblance of work from the weekend. They didn't have any friends to spend them with, anyway. Friends were a waste of time and effort.

Except Monty _did_ have a friend. Smithers was his friend, his dear friend who found things for them to do together on the weekends. Pointless, highly inefficient examples of diversion. Dragging him to picnics in the park, or to smoky nightclubs featuring some starving jazz musician performer. To the mall, where Monty could invest a pittance of his bottomless fortune in a little retail therapy. Or to some terrible play downtown no one should ever induce their friend into going to.

Monty remembered last weekend well. There had been a benefit auction in Shelbyville. He had shown up not to raise money for that putrid hellhole's Children's Hospital. (That detestable city's children must likewise be detestable) He'd gone to hobnob with other influential figures and perhaps pick up a few additions for his already extensive art collection.

There had been a ball following it, and as Monty was trapped in conversation with some interminable windbag he happened to look across the room. His eyes fell on Smithers, clad nattily in a tuxedo. He felt his blood begin to boil. How dare he leave his side for one minute and go enjoy himself?! Why wasn't he coming over and rescuing him from this wearisome encounter?

Next, he was marveling at how well Smithers was fitting in here. Of course, he was a well educated young man and his manners were nothing short of impeccable. But it was the ease with which he shed that demeanor of servitude, the ease with which he was holding his own with men of his boss's social station, not his own. Monty felt something mighty akin to pride as he watched Smithers' companions laugh at some witticism he had just delivered.

And then he found himself admiring the set of Smithers' jacket across his shoulders. Not bad, not bad at all. He wondered what he did to keep them so toned. It was unfortunate Smithers never had an excuse to use the decontamination showers at the plant. What with the security cameras in there, Monty's get a chance to see what else was in tip-top shape.

His cheeks grew hot and his stomach churned. He was thoroughly disgusted with himself for having such thoughts, for letting this strange attraction to his assistant surface again. He forced his attention back to the puck fisted blowhard, who was talking some nonsense about opening a chain of restaurants catering to the pets of the rich and famous.

Even now, the memory was enough to cause him to blush profusely and to peer anxiously about his bedchamber, as if watched by eyes that knew where his mind had been and were most disapproving.

Of course, no one was observing him. That was the height of absurdity. He was alone. As he'd ever been.

Subsequent to him summoning sufficient vigor to haul his old bones out of bed and ready himself for the day ahead- a day which he had no plans for- he sat at the head of the large table in the dining room and picked at his bowl of rapidly-turning-soggy bran flakes. After this robust breakfast, an idea struck him to make health the theme of the day. He would get some exercise by exploring his own mansion. There were certain sections of it, after all, that he hadn't been to in eons. But as he went upstairs and began to wander, much to his chagrin, his mind followed suit.

Well, he wasn't in love with Waylon Smithers, that was a definite! He couldn't give a damn less about that bespeckled lickspittle, in fact. He didn't feel even the platonic sort of love for him…did he? Perchance. Or close enough. But it was inconsequential. It must be put to the side, because once the poor sap came back from vacation Monty was going to fire him and then never see him again. He already wasn't thinking about him. Which was a relief, because if you can't stop thinking about somebody, you're probably in love with them. And Monty wasn't even remotely attracted to Smithers. No, he had never, _ever_ admired him in a physical way…oh, wait.

At length, he found it very easy to shift his focus to himself. To the countless artistic renderings of his magnificent person. He amused himself with such activities as making a mental list of his favorites. Although none could come close to accurately reflecting the power and supremacy of the illustrious Charles Montgomery Burns in the flesh.

He made it a good distance. Not to any of uncharted halls and chambers of his spacious and foreboding manor. He traveled all the way to his entertainment room unaided, and then stooped outside the door, determined that should he venture any further, he would have to stop for food and water.

He settled himself into the plush armchair before the television and lifting the remote, stabbed at the power button. The TV flicked on, displaying a Spanish-language soap opera starring that daft galoot in the bumblebee costume. Apparently, some genius had decided that he could cross over from comedy (or what passed for comedy these days) to the dramatic. He was clearly mistaken, but in spite of the program being utter drivel and not understanding a word of it, Monty sat there and watched the whole thing, almost as if in a trance.

The credits were rolling when the phone rang. A telemarketer. Monty expertly dueled out what-for to him, giving the man the harshest berating of his life for presuming that Montgomery Burns was interested in a new vacuum cleaner. Consarn it, there ought to be a list for people like him, a sort of list of people who could not be called…

He ambled back into the entertainment room to resume his absorption by the boob tube. This time that delightfully violent cartoon cat and mouse were on, and he gleefully watched and laughed uproariously at the psychotic, gratuitous slaughter fest antics. The show inspired Burns to head into his study with a devious agenda. A conniving leer overspreading his face, he withdrew from his desk drawer the latest employee evaluations. Oh, yes, tomorrow would be a good day. A good, _productive_ day. To eliminate the useless chaff from the more utilitarian wheat, he would dismiss the three employees with the worst evaluations- Carl Carlson, Lenny Leonard, and Homer Simpson.

By this time it was seven in the evening and already time to go to bed. It occurred to him that he had not thought of Smithers for several hours and he gloried in his victory.

He did not know that when he reached that hazy, pre-dream state just before he was ushered into sleep, he spoke that name aloud. A soft whisper, an entreaty. Not for a glass of water, or his bear Bobo. For the bearer of that name, pure and simple. For his presence and the sensation it evoked in his heart. An uninvited visitor, but one who would not be denied.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own The Simpsons.

Please Read & Review:)

"I have pizza for breakfast," Charla announced cheerfully when he reluctantly answered the door to her the following morning , her smile as sunny as the island day outside, brandishing a box containing said pie, a delicious aroma emitting from it. "Isn't it fun?"

"Oh, yeah, I don't know when I've had such fun," Smithers said sardonically, but he forced a tight smile and asked, "Do you want to come in?"

"Sure, that would be nice, " Charla consented and traipsed past him into the hotel room littered with clothes, peanut canisters, beer cans, bottles of scotch, etc.

She wrinkled her nose.

"Still a smoker, I see, " she mused, disdainfully brushing a couple cigarette butts off the comforter before perching daintily upon the edge of the bed.

Smithers leaned against the wall facing her.

"I quit for awhile. Then I started up again." He expected to be asked why, but she was silent. And the silence continued for several minutes as they munched their pizza.

"Do you know," Charla said suddenly, breaking the silence, sounding contemplative, "My sister and I…we were never really close, but I remember she drove up to see me one day, a long time ago. It was right after you'd proposed to her. I'd never seen her happier. She said she was positive you'd two do well together, because you were just the sort of man she always expected to fall in love with. I asked, 'What sort of man is that, Maggie?' And I'd never had cause to give her such credit for insightfulness as I did then. For she replied, 'Why, intellectual and cultured and sensitive.' And then she vacillated for a beat before telling me, 'but you know, there's something innately tragic about that kind of man.'" Charla scrutinized him unabashedly, Waylon noted as he stared back at her with a bland expression on his face.

"You're crossed in love, " she declared.

This got his attention.

"What? What would make you say so?"

"Something in your eyes. I walked around with much the same look in mine for months, after I first realized that things between my husband and me were hopeless. So it's either you're brokenhearted or you've killed someone." She paused. "And I don't think you're the murdering type."

Waylon laughed ruefully. "Well…you might be surprised."

He saw Charla visibly shrink back a little on the bed at his words. Suspicion and a hint of fear crept into her voice, "You haven't…"

Waylon swallowed the bite of pizza in his mouth and replied nonchalantly, "No. I haven't. Not…directly, at least. I might have… aided in _taking care of _a problem or two…not _my_ problems, but if they are giving _him_ problems…ahem, well, I'm not entirely sure…"

"Good Lord!" Charla gasped.

Waylon could have kicked himself. Here he was, essentially confessing to being an accomplice to murder! Or likely murder. Mr. Burns had oftentimes, without any qualms about the matter, implied that he'd had someone…err, _settled. _He'd certainly _tried_ a few times. But Smithers had no knowledge of somebody who had, without a shadow of a doubt, been assassinated. And here he was, spilling the beans to this woman who could turn him in, giving information that could quite easily be traced back to Mr. Burns.

Of course, when you're the personal assistant to such a man, you [voluntarily or not become an extraordinary liar.

And so Smithers compelled his sickened stomach to shake with mirth as he merrily retorted, "I'm only kidding!" and hoped he wasn't overacting. Charla seemed to buy it. Her facial muscles relaxed and she sat upright, tittering nervously.

Smithers thought back on what she'd said a couple minutes ago and fixing his gaze on his reflection in the mirror murmured, "Months."

"Months?" she echoed, uncomprehending.

"For months you wore this look of emptiness in your eyes, matching the void in your soul when it's other half has been taken away?"

He heard her breath catch in her throat. His wretchedness and desolation that Maggie'd picked up on so long ago as being likely to overtake him was starting to get to her.

"Waylon…sugar…please. This melancholy you are displaying is unhealthy and counterproductive. Whoever this person is…someone else is always bound to come along. I imagine the length of time I spent…pining over Alan is the exception rather than the rule. After all, in my case I was mourning the end of a six and a half year marriage. Your period of recovery needn't be so long."

Waylon didn't divulge that _he _was mourning the expectation of his exile from the man he'd adored for _twenty-five_ years. He did, however, set her straight about her assumption, "I meant that you suffered- not that you necessarily deserved to suffer at all, but comparatively speaking- for _months_. "Not _years_, or even _a year_, or you would have said as much. Whereas I shall suffer all the rest of my life. I will live as a broken shell of a man the remainder of my years if…" He could not continue, as tears began to form behind his eyes and his voice threatened to break.

He watched Charla's reflection in the mirror. Her hand went up to cover her mouth and she gawked at him in astonishment. She said in a softened tone to him, "Alan was not the other half of my soul."

Smithers swallowed around the lump in his throat and slid down the wall until he was sitting back on his heels.

"Monty's mine."

"A man, " Charla clarified, stating the obvious. That was all she could focus on.

"Yes." He pointed wearily at the TV. "Turn that on, would you?"

She complied and it turned out there was a classic movie marathon on. They had landed right smack in the middle of _Casablanca._

"My favorite movie, " Charla offered somewhat awkwardly.

"Not mine, " Waylon said, grabbing his pack of cigarettes off the counter and joining her on the bed. "I always wished Rick hadn't of done the noble thing."

They watched for a little while as Smithers smoked his last cigarette. The shades were all pulled tightly shut but the room was warm and the combination [coupled with their full stomachs made them both drowsy.

He dreamed of Mr. Burns. Not of making love to him as he did when he was only cowardly, but not worried, and free to be lustful. Last night as he had lied awake in bed, he concluded wryly that should he ever get the chance to…do those things with his love, he might simply be overwhelmed by the experience and his head would probably explode. But as he dreamt on this golden afternoon he had visions, sweet but torturous, of some moments they'd shared. Tender, but not necessarily romantic. Out of 25 years there were many memories. The last was of Mr. Burns giving him mouth-to-mouth after he'd slipped into a sort of coma resulting from being denied his thyroid medication. The only time Mr. Burns had ever voluntarily put his lips on his. And that was to save his life. Now did he care if he lived or died?

He pried his eyes open. He was lying on his side facing the nightstand where his cell phone was laying. He reached over to check the time and saw that he had one missed voicemail. His heart almost stopped.

_Could it be…_

He wasn't even sure if he wanted him to have called. If he had, there was a good chance it was to nicely, contritely, terminate his employment. Or…it may be the reverse. A message saying that he had thought about it, and some wondrous revelation had occurred.

_Smithers, I love you, too._

Tears stinging the corners of his eyes, he shook his head. No, that was impossible.

The message was from John, sounding properly ashamed of himself, apologizing profusely for showing up at the plant drunk and making a scene. It had been there since Friday. Waylon had never bothered to check.

"I appreciate the apology," he told the phone and added despondently, "But it's of little help to me." Then he quickly dialed the airport.

As soon as he hung up the phone, he glanced over at his ex sister-in-law, still asleep.

Smithers nudged her gently.

"Hey. Hey Charla, wake up."

Charla sighed and stretched and opened her eyes. She grinned. "My, my, in bed with your wife's sister," she joked.

Waylon chuckled. "Not to be rude, but I need you to get up and go back to your own room."

She groaned and propped herself up on one elbow. "Why?"

"I'm leaving."

Charla blinked in confusion as sat fully up. "Where?"

To Springfield." He hauled himself off the bed and she clumsily did the same, nearly tripping over the various items littering the floor."

"You're going home? Now? Why?"

"I have to. I just…have to. There's a plane leaving in an hour and a half. I think I can make it."

"You still haven't answered my question, hon, " she demanded, hands on hips. "You going to go after that man?"

He felt the vise constricting on his heart. "I'm not in a position to do so. But I just had…what you could call…an ephiphamy. If he is going to banish me, I have my whole life [however long that is to be apart from him. If I go back to town now…I can't see him, but just to know that he sees the sunrise when I do, sees the moon and the stars at the same time I do. And find out somehow if he's okay. I still worry about that, you know."

Charla caught a glimpse of herself in the little mirror over the bureau and gasped. "Oh! Waylon! My mascara is all smudged! Why didn't you tell me?! Oh, that's what I get for sleeping in makeup."

Waylon fished a tissue from his pocket and leaned in, dabbing at the black under her eyes, but quit when he realized he was only making it worse. He smiled sheepishly, his hand halted to her cheek.

"Here's looking at you, kid."

"Good luck, Waylon. With everything." She placed her hand over his own and brought it down to his side. And with that she was gone.

And as soon as he'd packed his things and dropped the key off at the front desk, so was Waylon.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I do not own the Simpsons. Please read and review! 

**Monday**

Lenny and Carl stood tremulously before the great oak desk. The former twiddled his thumbs in nervous apprehension, whilst the latter's eyes darted uneasily around the room, landing on anything except the frail but ominous looking man behind the desk who had summoned them here. But that man's focus wasn't on the pair of nincompoops already quivering in front of him. C. Montgomery Burns watched the open door across the office, tapping his quill pen against the arm of his wingback chair, his patience growing more tried by the instant. Awaiting Homer Simpson.

At that very moment, the aforementioned man came barreling in, breathing heavily, at such an alarming speed that he nearly collided with Monty's desk.

"OhmygoshI'msosorryMr.BurnsIranallthewayhereIhopeIdidn'tkeepyouwaitingtoolongandbythewayIreallylikeyourtiehehe." Homer Simpson's words all came out in a rush, tumbling one right after the other.

"Your impertinence is unpardonable," griped Mr. Burns, glowering at him menacingly, "Just what gave you the notion that you could brazenly flout my orders to come here immediately?"

"Well, I um…uh," Homer stammered, then his eyes lit up and he retrieved something he had been holding behind his back, holding it up proudly. "I was adding to my chain of paperclips. In your face, Carl!" he shouted, pointing at his coworker. "It's two whole feet longer than yours!" He began to dance in a circle, joyfully swinging the chain around. "Mine is bigger than yo-ours! Mine is bigger than yo-ours!"

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead, " Carl replied, arms folded across his chest in annoyance. "I bet you've never been able to say that before, huh?"

Homer continued to giggle giddily and skip around Carl for a few more seconds before the implication set in. Then…

"Hey!" Homer shouted angrily. As he shook his fists at Carl, the paperclip chain went flying and hit Lenny in the eye.

"Ow! My eye!"

"Oh, now look what you did!" Carl snapped accusingly at Homer, but made no attempt to help Lenny, who was now running back and forth, yelling in pain.

Monty Burns could scarce believe the dog-and-pony show he was bearing witness to. With trembling anger he rose to his feet and shouted as loud as he could, "You morons will cease this behavior this instant or suffer the consequences! Not that anything will save you from being fired from your jobs!"

They halted and were silent. Carl roughly and unceremoniously pulled the string of paperclips out of his friend's eye.

"Ow!" Lenny cried, then addressed Mr. Burns.

"You mean we're losing our jobs?" he asked fretfully.

"That's right, " Mr. Burns confirmed, speaking slowly, his words dripping with scorn. "And do you know why?"

"Um…because we spend more time goofing off than actually working?" guessed Carl.

"Because we make up fake religious holidays so we can drink at Moe's bar?" Lenny chimed in.

"Because we're grossly incompetent?" suggested Homer.

"Hey, I'm not," Carl corrected him. "I have a Masters degree in Nuclear Physics."

"Me, too," Lenny added.

"And yet you scored the second and third lowest on the employee evaluation reports!" Mr. Burns interrupted.

There was a brief pause, and then Lenny asked, "Who was second and who was third?"  
"Wha…What the…" Monty sputtered. "It doesn't matter!"

"Yeah!" Homer seconded. "The point is you both suck!"

"You're the worst!" Mr. Burns exploded at him, then slumped back in his chair, exhausted from the effort.

"D'oh!" said Homer.

Lenny shrugged and started to leave. "Oh, well, I guess there's always a future for me in the Army's neurochemical research experiments."

Carl followed, heaving a sigh and remarking, "One of Moe's Forget Me Shots will solve this problem- or at least block out its resulting despair."

"What's a 'forget me shot'?" asked their boss before he could stop himself.

"It erases the memory of your last twenty-four hours," answered Homer off-handedly.

"Interesting," Monty commented, jotting the information down on a notepad. Upon looking up, he discovered his three recently terminated employees all walking out the door together, seemingly without a care in the world, chatting convivially. No one would guess they had just lost their source of income.

Monty was infuriated. He had meant to hoist himself out of the disturbing mental reverie of the last few days and console himself by covering these three fatuous dunderpates with the veil of depression. And yet they acted like they wouldn't even miss the too-ample contents of their paychecks!

"I don't think you understand the gravity of your situation!" he exclaimed. "You've just lost your jobs, all your livelihood!"

Only Simpson turned to face him. "Yes, but they're not all we have. I may have a family to support, but its their love and support that sees to it that I do, no matter what. Even Lenny and Carl have each other…"

From somewhere down the hall, Lenny's voce could be heard.

"Hey!"

Homer went on, his aspect one of mingled resentment and pity. "But you…I don't know Mr. Burns. If you ever find somebody to love you, you'd better hang on to them and never let go."

His words hit the nail right on the head. The nail called his perpetual state of loneliness. Monty acknowledged this sense of isolation, but always told himself that he was fine with it. Of course, whenever he highlighted an amorous affair with a marriage proposal, he realized hat he was giving lie to that theory, but then it didn't matter anymore, admitting a need which had already been met. How different would life be with a second toothbrush on the counter, another body there beside him when he woke up in the morning! And yet…in so many cases that's all it would be. Sharing a house, however grand and majestic, wasn't the same thing as sharing a life. And there wasn't anybody he was prepared to share his life with…was there? Besides the one he practically already was.

Mr. Burns swallowed hard. "Go. Get out now," he muttered lowly, turning to stare out the window.

"Eh, I'll be back. I'm **always** back," came the reply from Homer Simpson.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Final Chapter! The previous one was short, so I'm making this one extra long, which is hopefully a good thing. :)

Thank you to my reviewers:D Please review this chapter, too, and enjoy!!!

Disclaimer: I do not own The Simpsons.

When Smithers went down to the lobby of his apartment complex shortly after lunch on Monday to check his mail, he found a young woman there about to get into his mailbox. It was Leah, who lived directly above him, and whom he had commissioned to retrieve his mail and care for his dog, Hercules, in his absence. 

"Oh, Waylon!" she said surprised, handing him back the spare keys to his mailbox and apartment he had given her, "I didn't think you be back until after 5 o'clock today."

"I determined to come home early. I returned yesterday and spent the night here." He frowned at her in an attempt, without any real conviction, to come off as stern and cross. "And by the way, I've noticed that you haven't been in to feed Herky yet."

"Yeah, hehe," Leah replied sheepishly, rubbing at the back of her head, "Well, I was just about to do that, Waylon, honestly. I mean , I have been feeding him- he doesn't act like he's starving, does he?"

"That's because I fed him," Waylon pointed out, then grinned. "But no, it's okay, it's obvious you haven't been letting him go hungry."

"Hey, gorgeous!" Leah suddenly exclaimed, her attention shifting beyond Smithers' shoulder, to somebody who had just walked into the lobby. That person was soon at Leah's side, exchanging cheek kisses with her, and it turned out to be John.

John and Leah were good friends. She was a stylist at the place where he got his hair cut. Although she was a nice enough person, for his part, Waylon wouldn't trust her near his own hair as far as he could throw her. Next to Marge Simpson, wife of Sector 7G drone Homer Simpson, Leah probably was the female in town with the most radical hairstyle. Maroon colored, shaved in the back, long on the sides, with a few black-tipped spikes sticking up on top. Even though John always walked out of her salon looking perfectly fine, Waylon would continue to get his signature flattop at the same barbershop he always did, thank you very much.

"Are you ready to go?" John was asking Leah.

"Am I!" she cried, "I'm positively famished!"

He turned toward Smithers. "Howdy, Waylon, did you get my message?" He sounded very serious, unusual for John.

"I did, John, thank you, " Waylon replied solemnly.

"I was hoping you might call back," he confessed.

"I was on vacation. Forgive me if I was a trifle distracted."

"Ah," said John with a sly look, jabbing him playfully in the ribs. "And were you vacation where the company is particularly…_distracting_?"

He was referring to the Men's Resort. Waylon stepped away from John's conspiratorial nudging, which had grown a little too hard, and tried to speak with no petulance. "No, just someplace to relax."

"Say, Leah and I were just about to go for lunch; wanna tag along?" John offered.

Waylon shook his head in the negative. "No, that's alright, I already ate."

"Oh, come on, killjoy," John urged, his voice bordering on a whine. "Just come and spend a little time with your friends. Something's going on inside that pretty little head of yours, and I'm determined to wheedle it out."

"Well, you won't have any success," Smithers assured him. He really wasn't in the mood. He had been acquainted with John for a long time. Smithers was by halves another victim of his charm or else feeling such a complete lack of sympathy for the fellow (he being so reticent himself and not possessing John's natural and contagious buoyancy) that his nerves were mercilessly ground by him.

"Waylon, just say yes so we can get going!" Leah shouted.

"It'll be so much better if you come along," John persisted. "We're going to the Shaboom Kaboom Café, and you know it's only for the atmosphere. The food is sadly sub par. If I want a tasty little morsel, I'm going after you." He winked.

Waylon nearly burst out laughing. "Who do have writing your lines?" he asked incredulously. "Fine, I'll come."

Leah sat up front with John and gabbled on about her new girlfriend, Robyne, who apparently would be moving in with her soon. Leah had had, over the course of the last year, four girlfriends, all of who had moved in for a period. After the breakup, each was succeeded a matter of weeks later by a new live-in love for Leah.

But Leah stressed that she was_ very _optimistic about _this_ relationship.

As the Cadillac with its zebra print seat covers passed the nuclear plant, Waylon craned and stretched his neck to see every little bit of it. From the parking lot (which made no sense; who would be in the parking lot now?), to the building where the executive offices were. He cast his gaze upward, wondering if he would glimpse his boss standing out on the balcony. His breath quickened. He ached to see him. Already Smithers was going through serious Burns withdrawal.

Alas, the balcony was empty.

The car sped forward, Waylon still staring back forlornly at the plant.

John and Leah changed their minds and decided to stop at Krustyburger instead and eat their meals in the park.

"It's such a bee-utiful day!" John drawled, "Let's not waste it." The man proceeded to order the kid's meal at Krustyburger, and was so elated with the little Krusty figurine it came with that (while he was driving) he intermittently turned around to shove it in Waylon's face and make honking noises.

This was a mistake, Waylon thought, thoroughly incensed, as he slapped the toy way for the umpteenth time. 

At the park, however, things settled down. Leah soon abandoned them when she discovered a troupe of mimes performing there and it so happened that she knew a few of them. John finished up his food, and somehow they wound up talking about IT, Thursday night, when John ventured,

"I didn't get you in trouble, did I?"

And Smithers carried on confiding in people because it made no difference, "More than you. Mr. Burns found out that I'm….I'm in love with him."

John let out a whoop and slapped hi knee. "You telling me he didn't know before? He at least knows that you're as queer as a three dollar bill, doesn't he?

Waylon chafed and exclaimed, "God! If that's how you choose to refer to yourself but I'm no stereotype and I don't define myself by…"

"Okay, okay, settle down Bessie!" John held up his hands defensively. "So, he doesn't return your feelings, is that it?"

Waylon shook his head despairingly. "No, I don't think he can." He explained what had happened after John had gotten thrown out, and about Burns turning up at Smithers' apartment the next morning.

"So?" John said when he was finished, "Maybe he just needed some time to think about it."

"No! You didn't see the look in his eyes, as if I was a stranger, and his disturbed and apprehensive demeanor! He's from a different time, he probably thinks I'm a sicko, I'm probably fired, and he's way too straight!" He was nearly bawling in the middle of the park and needed to pull himself together.

John regarded him with sympathetic eyes, and his hand landed on Waylon's knee. Both of Waylon's eyebrows shot up. _So much for trying to patch things up with Grady, _he thought, as he lifted John's hand and removed it.

His companion only chuckled. "I don't get you. So you never planned on telling Old Bony that you loved him? You were content suppressing your feelings just to remain by his side?"

"I…I have confessed my feelings before, " Smithers said softly, playing with a blade of grass. "It's just…he wasn't really paying attention when I did it, or then I retracted it in some way…"

"Ah. Well, see, there's your problem."

"I wanted to tell him last Friday. I ended up being sent away by that time, but my vacation wasn't supposed to begin until Saturday…I had a dream of him going with me…" He sighed. "But then I've had several dreams. It's just that…we'd been getting along lately, and I _was _believe it or not, tiring of the staidness and invariability of my situation…"

"But you weren't really going to do anything about it."

And it then that the epiphany occurred.

"…No. I wasn't."

Tuesday 

What else could he do but show up for work on Tuesday?

He'd received no orders to do otherwise.

Waylon stood a moment on the manor's doorstep, the key in the lock, but he didn't turn it yet. There was a security camera at the gate, which caught the footage of him successfully using his keycard to access the property. Was Mr. Burns at this moment inside watching his monitors, watching Waylon's progress, waiting for him to enter the mansion? What would occur when he opened the door?

The second he stepped foot onto the cold checkered tile of the main hall, would he be met with his boss's vicious dogs bearing down upon him?

He took a deep breath. Turned the knob in his hand. Stepped inside.

Nothing happened.

Then there was a loud crackling noise and Smithers jumped about a foot in the air before realizing that it was coming from a corner of the room, near the ceiling. About a year ago, Mr. Burns had installed an intercom system. It was just easier, in this cavernous place; betimes Smithers failed to hear him ring his bell when the assistant was dealing with a pesky girlscout at the front door and Burns suddenly needed help chewing his Kobe beef.

"Ah, good to see you're here," came Mr. Burns' voice from the speaker. "To the dining room, post haste, Smithers."

Smithers felt his features screw up into an expression of confusion. What, the dining room? Mr. Burns never ate breakfast until he was completely dressed. So he had dressed himself? Of course, Smithers presumed that was what he had been doing the past few days but…but why would he prefer to?

Waylon's stomach dropped. _Unless he doesn't want my dirty, licentious hands on him, my lustful eyes ogling his naked body._

Even if Mr. Burns was prepared to ignore Thursday night's revelation, it had inevitably changed things between them forever. How could it not?

Waylon trudged into the dining room to find his boss seated at the head of the table. Their eyes locked. Mr. Burns did not flinch and appeared almost…cheerful. Not so cheerful that it got Smithers' hopes up that he was going to dash into his arms and passionately return his love.

No…oblivious cheerful. Like nothing was new.

"Uh…hello, sir," he greeted him with uncertainty.

Monty's face was still an inscrutable mask. "Salutations, Smithers," he answered unequivocally, "And how was your vacation?"

"It was fine, sir. I'm happy to be back, though." It was the uniform reply, even under these exceedingly awkward circumstances. But as soon as the words left his mouth, Smithers thought that he shouldn't have said that last part. He cleared his throat.

Mr. Burns narrowed his eyes at him. "Yes, well, I found myself in a fine kettle of fish on Friday night, I hope it was worth it!"

Waylon regarded him with surprise and concern. "You hope what was worth it? What happened on Friday night?" He peered at Mr. Burns carefully, as if to discern any injuries.

"Hmmph!" cried Mr. Burns. "Well, it wasn't meant to be taken literally, you blithering toady; I'm not a Catholic, it wasn't as if I was up to my neck in herring!"

Smithers chuckled under his breath. "I wouldn't imagine it would be anything less than filet mignon, sir."

"Regardless!" his boss raved, "I was referring to you taking off on your vacation early! I hope it was worth it!"

Waylon's jaw practically hit the floor. "But sir…you expressly _said_ for me to take Friday off…"

"Bah! Why would I do that, pray?"

_You know why,_ Smithers thought to himself. _This isn't making any sense._

"Um…" he started.

"Never mind!" Mr. Burns cut in harshly. "The point is that I somehow came to be perched on a stool in some dingy, blue-collar 'dive'"-here he instituted the air-quotes- "on Friday last, with no memory of my previous twenty-four hours. The proprietor of that shameful establishment informed me that that had been my whole intention. That I had, for some mysterious reason come in and ordered a 'Forget Me Shot'"- air-quotes again- "in order to erase all remembrance from my brain of a most distressing incident the day before. I asked the barkeep- Moe, I believe was his name- if anybody else had been in my me. He replied in the negative. I then dialed your number to ask just what the dickens was going on, and to give you a thorough chewing-out. You did not answer! I could hardly fathom it! I was seething with rage, but then it was growing late- half past six! - and who knew what ruffians would be about at that hour? So I hied a taxi home. My God, Smithers, do you know what awful things could have befallen me, resulting from your abandonment!? Not to mention that peculiar disrespect you showed in taking off evidently just because you felt like it, instead of deferring to the vacation time had I set aside for you in my benevolence?"

As Smithers, out of force of habit, stammered out a million apologies, somewhat unintelligibly, himself not really aware what he said, his mind swarmed with thoughts he couldn't really hold onto, his heart with feelings so varied and undefined. He endeavored to define them.

Relief was one. The biggest one…wasn't it? Now he wouldn't be fired, he wouldn't be expatriated. That is, unless, Mr. Burns really did decide to send him packing on the grounds of his alleged 'abandonment'.

But then there were these two other feelings…Smithers knew perfectly how to categorize them, but he almost didn't want to, because they were so… incongruous. He had wished, so_ violently _for IT to have been undone. Because it shouldn't have happened like that. But no…these two feelings were unmistakably Disappointment and Blame.

Disappointment because of yesterday's conclusion that he was very unlikely to ever reveal his true feelings to Mr. Burns. And if it hadn't been that moment he always meant to go for, of pouring his heart out to him, eloquently and fervently…It was the equivalent of being in middle school and asking your friend to let your crush know that you liked them. It wasn't romantic or courageous but it got the job done.

Not to mention that tiny flicker of hope, that Smithers was almost embarrassed of, that dwelt in his heart with those tantalizing and soothing whispers that things might turn out the way he wanted them to.

And he blamed his boss for downing that drink.

"What would you like for breakfast, Mr. Burns?" he inquired, moving toward the kitchen, suddenly very desirous to be alone and get his bearings.

"No, no don't cook me anything," his boss requested, "Let's go to a restaurant for breakfast today." With an imperious lift of the chin he proclaimed, "I am _far _too generous with you."

Smithers offered a frail semblance of a laugh and went to pull the car around. He did not espy the small, secretive smile creep onto his employer's face, nor the old man press his fingertips together.

"Excellent."

The day went by more quickly than usual, with Smithers as busy as he'd ever been. There was a board meeting that day, which gave him a chance to perform the more administrative assistant duties according to his job description, as opposed to the hundreds of little odd jobs he was responsible for on a daily basis. It truly kept him on his toes, assisting during the meeting, seated firmly at Mr. Burns' right hand, then scrupulously leaving the room at intervals to check and organize Mr. Burns' e-mail and phone messages. During lunch, under Mr. Burns' orders, he returned or disregarded them as called for, between bites of his cold salami sandwich at his desk, whilst his boss did some rare socializing with the board members in the 'cafetorium'.

There was little time to dwell upon one's personal thoughts and feelings.

Finally, the day was winding down. Smithers and Burns were alone in the boardroom. Mr. Burns was seated at the long rectangular table, looking tired but smug. He declared the day a triumph, with an air of self-complacency even more prevalent than usual, but he was in his 'all is right with the world mode', as opposed to his 'all is wrong with the world so I must destroy it' mode. The main objective of the meeting had been coming up with new ideas for cost-cutting, and Monty grinned as he opened the folder containing the day's minutes, quite confident about the effectiveness of effecting some of the measures.

Smithers wandered over to the little side table where there was the a coffee pot and poured himself a Styrofoam cup's worth of the strong, thick, black liquid.

"Well, Smithers, let's go over these, shall we?" Mr. Burns started, eyes flickering over the sheet of paper, "Hmmm…I think _this_ one sounds the most promising: a mass layoff, followed by the expedient hiring of illegal aliens and recent college grads with no experience, who we won't have to pay so much."

"Hehe," Smithers, twittering, approached Mr. Burns and sat down next to him. "While that certainly _would be_...erm, effective…._ temporarily_, I think, that in the long run, it would create more problems than it would solve. I mean, you're already bribing the Mayor, the Nuclear Safety Commission, and once it got out that you were hiring masses of illegals, you'd have to start paying off Immigration, too. And considering how many people with families this plant currently employs, once they are fired in favor of young singletons, there might be riots. The media will spin this in a most unflattering way, and you'll become generally even more hate…ooh, um, I mean, _misunderstood,_ and they might be prompted to boycott and switch to…_solar power._"

Mr. Burns gasped.

"You'd be much better off," Smithers continued, "implementing some of these smaller changes. You know, they can really add up, " he began reading aloud from the list, "Switch from selling name brand Buzz Cola in the vending machine to generic soda, start using a lower grade of beef in the cafeteria, alter the dental plan so its doesn't cover bridgework, enact stricter policies for the pension plan so employees have to work longer before they qualify…"

Upon looking to his boss for his reaction, he encountered a distracted, glazed-over look in Mr. Burns' eyes.

Waylon cleared his throat. "Uh, sir…are you okay?" he asked worriedly.

Monty nodded abstracted. "We're going to have to take this slowly…"

"Uh, yeah, of course," Smithers replied, thinking he referred to the cost-cutting endeavors. "That makes sense, sir, I mean…"

His lips were suddenly stopped when his boss's captured them. He saw Mr. Burns leaned in toward him, in such a way that logically Smithers could think of any other reason but for a kiss. But no, that couldn't be it, he had lint on his jacket, or Mr. Burns merely intended to whisper in his ear…

They were kissing, though. They were actually kissing! Waylon felt such a surge of emotion and pleasure…and shock. He couldn't fathom what was happening, or for what purpose. Even as he cupped a hand to the back of Mr. Burns' neck and deepened the kiss, he couldn't help thinking, _he is going to kill me!_

Finally they drew apart from one another. Smithers' head didn't feel like it was going to explode, but it felt dizzy and swimmy and light.

Nevertheless, he spoke first.

"You didn't…"

"I didn't."

"You remember…"

"I remember everything, yes."

"So…?"

"So."

Smithers gathered up all his courage. "Sir, I…I well, why…why did you, um, kiss me? I mean it seems like," he stared deep into his employer's eyes, searching. Mr. Burns turned his head away, smirking slightly, "It seems like you've come to a decision, and I just want to make sure I didn't misinterpret what it is."

"Didn't I say that I wanted to take it slowly/' he grumbled, standing, looking quite exasperated. "I meant our…relationship. I want to have…one. With you."

Waylon felt tears of joy welling up in his eyes and he leapt to his feet. "Oh, sir…" he exclaimed rapturously as a warmth suffused his entire body and his heart soared. "I love you!" And that final part of the confession, those words he'd always longed, to say, came so easily, so freely out of him.

And to his utter astonishment and delight, his boss, his friend, his love replied, "I love you, too." He nearly fainted!

Monty had waited a fraction of a second to say it back, but Waylon needn't doubt the authenticity of the statement. He knew Monty well enough to know that the older man wouldn't lie to give comfort on anyone's behalf. He had hesitated just because the words on his tongue had felt so strange there, and who he was about to say them to (his assistant, his _male_ assistant), was even stranger to him. This was all so new to him. Which also added validity to his declaration of love- nothing less than that emotion would override his objections to a thing he had never in his whole life imagined he would be a part of.

"Oh, thank you, sir," Smithers breathed, laughing internally at the high probability that he'd continue to address his new boyfriend as 'sir'. _But from habit_, he reflected, _it doesn't have such a formal sound._

Somehow they were locking lips again. Smithers was a good kisser, Monty thought, enjoying it every bit of it as he had at the table. Both of these kisses amplified times ten the spark he had experienced (but strove so arduously to pretend he hadn't) all that time ago when Smithers kissed him at the quote unquote 'Apocalypse'. It was sort of amazing, that he was enjoying kissing a man. This concept of being involved with a member of his own sex was not distasteful, but a foreign imprint on his mind. For when it came right down to it, it wasn't about finding the right _woman_ anymore. It was about the right person. Everything in his mind, the old teachings, that reminded him that this was unnatural and taboo, was silenced. For C. Montgomery Burns had that (which was mostly a flaw, but in this case a talent) ability of finding a method of sanctioning everything that he did. He was never one to deny himself whatever he wanted.

And what he wanted was here. _Who _he wanted was here. He has stuck another claim to Waylon Smithers. He had claimed him previously as an employee, a friend. Now he claimed him as a lover. (For no matter what Monty'd said, even he knew at this moment, that it wouldn't be long before they quite literally moved from boardroom to bedroom)

And he had a good feeling Waylon Smithers wouldn't mind that sort of possession in the slightest.

**The end.**


End file.
